Skye Cree Boxed Set Books 1 - 3

by Vickie McKeehan

  For chrissakes, Frank De Palo had fans, a following who adored him in the octagon. He owned two cars, a BMW and a no-frills black pickup he drove when he went out for “death night”.

  And if he lost everything, it was the fault of that meddling bitch and her fuck-buddy.

  He’d wanted a showdown with Skye Cree and Josh Ander, didn’t he? He would give them one they wouldn’t forget. He could take them both. He was certain of it. No way would he let a computer geek or a female win. Not only that, but Frank had no intention of being locked up in a cell for the rest of his life. He’d die before he let that happen.

  So, he’d bide his time. He’d settle the score with Ander and the Cree woman and then head to Canada using the aliases he’d manufactured for himself. Once there, he’d lie low until he could make his way to the Persian Gulf, specifically Dubai, known around the world as the Las Vegas of the Middle East. With a long list of trendy nightclubs, modern buildings that glistened in the sun—and a string of private islands at his disposal—it would be like being on holiday twenty-four-seven.

  He couldn’t wait to get there.

  But first, he would take care of the Cree bitch.

  And one thing Frank knew how to do well was track his prey. Once he got a victim in his sights, they rarely got away. Okay, maybe once in all these years, he’d slipped and let it happen. But that was a fluke. He didn’t intend to repeat the mistake.

  After all, he’d been trailing Skye Cree for weeks. He knew she went out every night. That might be the perfect venue to exact his revenge. Wait in some dark alleyway for her to walk down and surprise her. But it wasn’t the setting he preferred. No, when he took down Skye Cree it would be the place of his choosing, a place where he could control the environment—and the woman.

  There was no reason to panic, none at all.

  Frank knew how to win. He left nothing to chance. And he knew how to make that chance count.

  Chapter 24 Book 2

  The police may have thought their killer had left the area but Skye and Josh knew better.

  Despite Leo, Winston, and Reggie digging into Frank’s history as far back as high school, they couldn’t pinpoint a financial footprint. They had been unable to track any credit and debit card use. There had been zero activity using any of his million-dollar bank balances. It meant that Frank had likely gone covert using one or more aliases he’d created years before, along with having a string of IDs and other accounts that had no connection to Frank De Palo whatsoever.

  “I hate to say this, Josh, but I think we might’ve hit a dead end here,” Reggie admitted one afternoon inside the conference room at Ander All Games where the trio had set up shop. As the twenty-two-year-old graduate of Cal Poly pounded on his Mac’s keys, he added, “The three of us have crawled up this guy’s ass every which way we can financially and found no activity for the past week. None.”

  “That isn’t to say we won’t keep tabs on his accounts. But it appears he’s shrewd enough not to leave a trail. He knows we’re watching him online, and he’s using nothing we can trace,” Leo added.

  “But remember,” nineteen-year-old Winston reminded Josh, as he caught the bug in a line of code and zapped it, “If he gets anywhere within a hundred feet of our dummy Wi-Fi network, and his cell phone is set up to search, we’ll be able to track his digital signature without his ever knowing it.”

  “But what’s the likelihood of that really happening?” Josh asked Winston, who’d been coding since he was fourteen. “Let’s face it. It’s a one in a million shot. I’d hate to hang everything we have on whether or not he searches for a local Wi-Fi network.”

  “It’s a safety net, Josh,” Leo countered. “In the event he gets close. It might just be the very thing that captures his location. You never know.”

  But it was nothing more than a longshot and Josh knew it.

  For that reason, he and Skye doubled their efforts to come up with a plan of their own. In order to lure the serial killer out of his lair, they figured you had to give him a good enough reason to crawl out of the hole.

  They bounced ideas off each other by brainstorming about it.

  “We could do what one of the FBI profilers suggested doing, insult his intelligence.”

  “Might take too long. What about playing to his vanity?”

  “Okay. So we plant a couple of stories on the Internet about how he’s too clever for law enforcement and everyone else involved. We’ll tell him how much better he is than Bundy or Ridgway. How long do you think that would take? First, he’d have to see it.”

  “Are you kidding? I bet the guy’s spending practically all his waking hours online monitoring every news article and post. But if you don’t like that idea, it only leaves one option.”

  “We challenge the bastard.”

  “Exactly.”

  Over the next several days they set up a training area in one of the spare bedrooms of the loft. They replaced all the bedroom furniture with a line of state-of-the-art gym equipment. They protected the hardwood flooring by adding platform mats guaranteed to cushion knockdowns as they went through their workouts.

  Once they settled on an approach they could agree on, they revised their angle, and then went over it again and again trying to perfect every facet—until it seemed they were getting on each other’s last nerve.

  Landing hard on her butt during a particularly difficult maneuver, Skye came up swinging. “You did that on purpose.”

  “Your timing is all wrong,” Josh shot back.

  “If you’d stick to what we rehearsed instead of improvising every time I turn around we might make some progress,” Skye grumbled. “In spite of all your fancy gadgets, you still can’t fight worth a damn.”

  “Who is it that’s sitting on her ass? Maybe if you’d stop criticizing everything I do for longer than ten damn minutes we could get this show on the road,” Josh snapped.

  “Oh really? So you’re saying I’m the reason this stupid idea isn’t taking off?”

  “An hour ago you didn’t think it was that stupid.”

  “Well, now I do. Besides, if I’m such a nag, then maybe I should pack up my stuff and head back to my own apartment.”

  “You’ve been looking for an excuse to do that for months now.”

  “I have not.”

  “Yes. You have. You’ve been dragging your feet for weeks now about making a commitment with me. I asked you to marry me and what did you do? You stood there staring back at me—like a deer that wanted to take off running at the first opportunity.”

  “You surprised me. That’s all.”

  “Oh I could tell that by the stricken look on your face. It’s exactly what every guy wants to see in the eyes of the woman he loves.”

  “As proposals go, it wasn’t the best setting. Plus, your timing wasn’t that great.”

  “I see. So you wanted candlelight, a nice dinner out, a ring maybe? Is that what you’re saying? Oh wait, because a guy usually does that when he’s at least ninety percent sure he’ll get a positive response. Besides, that’s a whole lot disingenuous on your part.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know damn well what it means. I’d suggested marriage before and couldn’t get you to talk about it then either. As I recall, the last time I brought it up, you couldn’t roll off me fast enough before taking that literal step away.”

  “I’m so glad to know this is how you really feel. I’ll just get my stuff and go.”

  “So who’s stopping you? Don’t expect me to run after you this time because you certainly don’t want to be here with me. Go back to that little dump you call an apartment.”

  “Fine. At least I’m not a pretentious asshole who has to order all this gear instead of just heading down to Travis’s place to work out like any normal person would do.”

  “You call landing on concrete normal? I’m thinking of you since you spend so much time down there on the mat these days.”

  “Kiss my ass!�
� And with that, she stormed off to gather up her things, at least what she could carry. She couldn’t wait to get out of the man’s house.

  There were advantages to being back in her own space, having her familiar things around her. She cooked dinner in her little galley kitchen, making a vegetarian rice dish with ingredients she already had on hand.

  After eating, she stretched out on her little sofa to read a book she’d picked up two months earlier at the used book store over on Fairfax near her mother’s old ceramics shop.

  But she couldn’t settle.

  After four chapters, she put the book aside and reached for the remote. Surfing the cable, she had trouble finding anything to watch. When she got desperate, she left it one of those DIY channels. The show about gardening reminded her she needed to take care of her plants. She watered, fertilized, and snipped dead leaves as she went.

  But that didn’t take long and soon she started rearranging her cabinets.

  It wasn’t even seven-thirty yet when she decided to clean out and organize her one and only closet. By nine, she decided she might as well get ready to go out on her rounds.

  An hour later, for the first time in weeks, she walked alone with only Kiya for company. Heading down a seedy section of alleyway between the harbor to her left and Western on her right, she skimmed the vacant lot she passed.

  When she thought she heard something coming from one of the ancient manufacturing buildings, she paused long enough to glance down at the wolf. Kiya gave no indication the sound was anything more than rats scurrying around in the night.

  Okay, false alarm, Skye thought as she continued to roam, moving from shadow to shadow, gauging her surroundings, listening for anything out of the ordinary.

  But the streets seemed strangely quiet tonight.

  That all changed around midnight when she spotted two homeless men arguing over a bottle of Two-Buck Chuck. Hoping she could pass by without being spotted, she sighed when one of them screamed at her back, “You. Skye. Stop. You got any money?”

  A fifty-something man who already looked like he was pushing sixty-five, teetered over to where she stood under a streetlamp. “Come on, Skye. Just a buck. That’s all I’m askin’ for. Danny-boy over there won’t share. Says it’s too cold out tonight.”

  Skye whirled, came around full circle to see the lined face that had once belonged to a local sportscaster. William Cannon had suffered an on-air breakdown. As a result he’d seen his illustrious career come to an end over one ill-timed rant. His wife had kicked him out shortly thereafter and the man had slipped into depression. He’d loaded trucks for a brief time but without any permanent place to stay, he had eventually drifted to living on the streets where he’d been since 2001. Recently William had begun to show signs of the early stages of Alzheimer’s. Without regular medication, he tended to become confused which made him an easy mark for anyone looking to beat him up. Skye had tried to help him before to no avail, and so had Lena.

  “William Cannon, shame on you. You told me you’d get off the street. You promised Lena you’d go stay with your daughter over in Olympia.”

  William gave her a sheepish look. “I did. Lena drove me over there. But after a couple days, turns out, Karen didn’t want me around her kids. Can’t say I blame her much.”

  Skye reached in her pocket, pulled out a five but snatched it back when he stuck out his hand. “Promise me, William, tomorrow night you’ll get off the street and head to the shelter. You have to be there early, by four at least to get a bed. Are you listening to me, William? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Aw, Skye, you worry ’bout me too much.”

  “I worry about you because you hang out with Danny Treader who served time in prison and is one mean asshole when he drinks, which is all the time.” She reluctantly slapped the bill into William’s palm knowing he would either lose it to Danny or he would drink it away—another one of life’s sad realities Skye couldn’t do anything about. “I come by here tomorrow night, William, and see you here with Danny, I’m gonna get you off the street myself. Understand?”

  He nodded but grabbed the money.

  Skye shook her head as she picked up her pace knowing full well William was more than likely a lost cause.

  She hadn’t gone a full block when at Sixth and Wheeler, Skye spotted a group of hookers that included the drug addicted Dee Dee and one of the girls she’d found last spring named Lucy Border. Purposefully Skye veered in the opposite direction. After William, she didn’t need the reminder that while she’d saved the little redhead from sex-trafficking bound for Argentina, she’d lost Lucy to an endless string of johns right here in Seattle.

  Sometimes the hard knocks in life were too real and depressing to dwell on them.

  She and Kiya covered another half mile down yet another back alley until it started to drizzle. The woman met the eyes of her wolf and realized it was time to head home.

  “Come on, Kiya, it’s time to get warm,” she uttered. “Some nights you just need to know when to call it quits.”

  Frank had never scaled a four-story brownstone before. Even though he’d considered doing just that for about five minutes, he damned sure wouldn’t try it at four-thirty in the morning with the rain coming down making every surface wet and slick.

  So he slipped into the Cree woman’s building the old-fashioned way, through the front door using the key he’d duplicated.

  For a few minutes, he stood in the tiny vestibule, rain dripping along his back making a mess on the scuffed wood floor. The foyer was so small and drab, he couldn’t help the sense of claustrophobia that wanted to descend along with that feeling he’d landed in a slum. His eyes zeroed in on the cluttered mailbox area to the right. Messy, trashy, it was just another example of how the lower dregs of society couldn’t even keep what little they had clean or tidy.

  It angered him that such a stunning woman chose to live in this kind of filthy surroundings. But he smiled to himself when he considered how he intended to take care of that tonight. He hefted his bag onto his shoulder, patting the leather. Didn’t he have all he needed right here to take care of the bitch?

  Frank began the climb up the stairs, trying to avoid the steps he remembered that had a tendency to creak. But in a structure that had been built in the 1940s that was damned near impossible.

  He’d given her plenty of time to get to sleep after her ridiculous habit of patrolling her turf. In spite of his admiring her speech that night at the Belmont, if it were left up to him, he never would have allowed her to walk the streets like some common tramp in the first place.

  In his experience, some women refused to listen. To him, Skye Cree was another mouthy broad who didn’t know her place or when to keep her trap shut. He silently vowed to show her both.

  She was up there, hopefully snug in that sorry excuse for a bed she slept in and warm under those hideous handmade quilts she liked so much. Typical woman, impractical and frilly, decidedly ill-informed, he thought now. For that alone, he would give her something special as a send-off.

  He knew about her breakup with the geek, knew she’d stormed out of the luxury condo two days earlier. At least she’d shown some sense there in leaving the guy. Ander might’ve found his cameras, might’ve thought he’d found one or two bugs, but the jerk hadn’t found all of the surveillance devices.

  So Frank had listened and learned. He’d waited and he’d planned. And now it was time to act.

  Once he reached the fourth floor, Skye’s door was only a few steps from the stairs. He mentally prepared for what he’d already practiced. The place was so small, so cramped he’d have to keep to his plan.

  Before slipping the key into the lock, he took several deep breaths to clear his mind. Then he stepped into the pitch black. He had to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. It was so much darker than what he remembered. The dammed place was so small and the packed furniture made it seem even smaller. When it took his vision longer to correct than it should, he was tempte
d just to reach over and flick on the light.

  That, of course, he couldn’t do. But he could use the penlight he wore around his neck. He thumbed the button to the “on” position and shone the sliver of light around so he could see.

  He quickly made out the lump under the covers. In his mind’s eye, he knew exactly the spot where he needed to go for his staging area. But first, he needed to remember how far the bed jutted out so he wouldn’t bump into it on his way to the minuscule kitchen. From memory, he counted off the exact number of footsteps, his anticipation growing with each stride.

  He slipped off his tennis shoes, then his socks, removed his jacket. He pulled his shirt over his head, unzipped his jeans. Just about the time he’d worked them down around his ankles, he felt a sharp searing pain shoot through both knees. He staggered backward before he buckled and crashed into a shelf full of dishes.

  Light flooded the room, momentarily blinding him.

  “How does that feel you sorry piece of shit? In case you forgot, that was for Sylvia Waterston,” Skye shouted as she pulled the baseball bat back around her head for another blow in case he advanced on her. Skye narrowed her eyes at the sight of Frank De Palo crumpled on the floor writhing in pain. Other than his jeans around his ankles, the man was naked.

  “Come on, get up, you bastard! So I can finish beating the shit out of you.”

  “You and what army,” Frank spewed out, doing his best to put the pain out of his head long enough so he could stand. Pulling himself upright with the help of the kitchen chair, he balanced himself before he added, “You think that bat will stop me, bitch? Think again. Or are you even capable of intelligent conversation?”

  “More than you know. I’m pretty sure this bat is what will bash your skull open just like you did to Julie Freeman. And I’m not here to talk to the likes of you. Normally I don’t believe in using artificial means to uh, excuse the pun, bring a man to his knees. But then you, Frank, are no man.”